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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002268">apologies, in retrospect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dark, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Richard Siken, Love Poems, Other, Poetry, just an anthology of my poems</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:33:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002268</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>just poems, some old &amp; some new</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. happy + forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for all the people i am running from.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>to all the people I’m running from.</p><p>follow my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/vamptenko?s=21">@vamptenko</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>sometimes, writing is hard, i can’t explain it properly but. it feels like giving away a little piece of my mind, when it’s slow on a Saturday morning, or messy like those scribble arts when i’m hunched over my phone in my bathtub; cold ceramic and shit. the mirror still fogged from when i let the tap run hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>it’s sad, sometimes, when i write, and i think this was me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>in august, november, last wednesday</span>
  </em>
  <span>, maybe because it reminds me i am not the same person i was five minutes ago, ever changing.</span>
</p><p>[i want to change, if change means never being this version of myself again] </p><p>
  <span>writing is freezing, the moment is now in paper, so i can’t escape it. there are things i don’t write about [but i will, one day] because i still like outrunning them. pen on paper like feet in the old track i used to run on. like lightning in action. because it was easier to go fast than to slow down. If you slow down, things start catching up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>my feet used to thunder against those tracks, one in front of the other, the wind whipping my clothes back. like this, i could imagine my past was dragging me back. i run faster, run so fast gold is no longer a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[i dont count silver, silver feels like failure. </span>
  <em>
    <span>second best. </span>
  </em>
  <span>i dont want to be second best ever again.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>if i freeze a good moment, will i be happy forever? i want to be happy forever.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. august in retrospect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to last august, the one that taught me what feeling was.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's something sadistic about the way I talk to you. Okay. I'm nice, I'm kind, I'm raw and open. I tell you about my therapy. But each time I backspace a pet name and dig my hands into my thighs, i feel a part of me split open, like torn stitches, sticky with longing. </p><p>Maybe im just lonely. Maybe I crave that kind of love, now. I know I told you I didn't want it, that I was content on my own, wine, cats and all, but you told me you wanted a girl named after a number and I didn't know how to help you. Maybe I didn't want to help you, maybe I wanted to pick up the pieces of your broken heart. </p><p>(maybe I wanted to show you I was worth something) </p><p>I don't even know if I mean this. Again, maybe I'm just lonely. Again, maybe I'm just tired. Again, maybe I want to experience the heartbreak for real this time. Not a 2 hour infatuation with a boy who's face remained a mystery to my mind. </p><p>(sodium chloride tasting salvation, we are just kids who hurt too much too fast. We are just kids, trying to drown ourselves in art, like art won't strangle us on land. We are just kids, who forget sometimes that we are just kids and not fully fledged adults. Sometimes, I sip the water and pretend it is vodka, just so I know how my dad felt. </p><p>I don't blame him for being unhappy, I don't blame him at all. I just wish he didn't pass it down to me like some kind of misplaced diary. I just wish he didn't pass down the autobiography of his thoughts. These scars staining my shoulders and my knees and my thighs. This anger staining my heart and my hands. This restlessness in my soul like a flighty bird.)</p><p>God, I am tired, let me rest, please, if only for an hour. I'm falling asleep on the phone with him, because his voice quiets something loud inside of me. I just want him to know I appreciate him, okay. I can't say I love you without feeling the lump in my throat rise just a bit more, I can't call his phone you see, my hands are too sweaty. </p><p>I live in this void of seeing and not seeing. The first time you told me you <em> luved </em>me I almost cried, the first time you told me you appreciated me I spent the whole week in a haze of that moment. </p><p>It's the same feeling I got when Forest Fire told me I was hot, when Navy told me I could sit in their lap if I wished. Compound, sodium chloride, I'm telling you, you set my heart on fire knowing my blood was gasoline. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. give me your hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to the stripper in soho, who taught me men wore lipstick too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sugar sweet suffering, that's what we call it. Like your tortured thighs covered in lace. Like growing pains and masculinity clouded in a haze of softness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[you never really did get rid of all your baby fat] </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darling, I'm not saying you’re soft, but I'm saying that when I hold your hands, mine don't start to bleed. Which is saying something, because sometimes you're a knife in my grip. Or a dog that's turned on its master. </span>
</p><p>you see, red doesn’t look good on me, not the bright stuff. So we paint our lips blood on October nights, and sip wine from baby bottles, and leave smears on the window to clean up next morning.</p><p>in this reality, there’s lipstick on your beard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. you make me think of</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to storms on the beaches, and cigarettes after sex.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You only get close to me because I make you feel warm, because you're insatiable. Because the weight of my chest on your back makes you forget about the weight of your actions on your mind. // sit on my bed look pretty pretty pretty, baby. Don't choke yourself with a string of diamonds, not while I'm not there to film it. Baby, darling, you are the star of my show. You never have to leave here, yeah I know. // you make me think of blood and drugs and morphine on beaches. Sand turns to stardust, the ocean turns to longing. // everything hurts, oh baby it hurts so bad. Tell me why it hurts so good. // I love you, come back to bed. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. wickedness is no sin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to cruelty, who taught me how to grow up.</p><p>follow my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/vamptenko?s=21">@vamptenko</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I would sit with you, but I'm afraid that the ground will swallow me up and you will laugh. And yes I understand that seems cruel, but don't you see? You are cruel; you are evil evil evil-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm not saying this because you kicked me out of your bed, I'm saying this because when I cried you drank my tears and told me I tasted sweeter like this. Sweeter when I'm bruised and broken and bloody and beneath you. On my knees, praying to the curve of your hips. In your bed, the light behind you makes you look like an angel. You. Here. Me. Here. But baby the feeling of you devouring me is taking me someplace else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never really understood suffering until you told me that I didn't deserve salvation — the feeling of your lips on my own.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. wishing you godspeed (glory)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to godspeed, who taught me how to wish.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m not ready to let you go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let’s sit here, for a second, let the water ride up to your knees before you turn the tap off, make sure it’s the right tap this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hand me a cigarette, you know the packet, and a lighter too. Say a prayer and I’ll light you one too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands hanging off the side of the tub and I want you to take it, I want you to lean so far back that your hair gets wet, I want you to know what it feels like to be inside me as I drown. Hold my head under the water until I scream, and then some, let me know what it feels like to control me. I want to know what it feels like to call a human home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godspeed, you see, I’ve let go of the chains, you’re free to go. What? Back away from the tub if you don’t wanna get splashed, don’t touch the end of my cigarette like the amber won’t burn a mark right into your finger. You want to remember me like this – naked, limp, willing – like it’ll take away from the fact that my mother raised me feral, raised me vicious, raised me unloved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll take care of you, that’s a promise. This city doesn’t love us, It wasn’t honest anyway. I can’t commit a crime without feeling it’s towering buildings try to break my spine into pieces. I can’t kiss a girl without feeling like it’ll get the pavement to swallow me up.</span>
</p><p>I’ve learned the wonders of nicotine on nighttime, silk on the body, love on the brain. Its a special brand of manipulation, lover. I know you stay because of the gold, because my eyes flicker like a casino in the summertime, but I don't care right now. Pass me the cigarette, pass me the bottle, pass me whatever brand of self-destruction you want me to introduce you to tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. red in my fist, in my heart in my mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to anger, who taught me how to love.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I can’t get angry anymore, not without feeling like I’m going to rip my door from its hinges, not without feeling like I’m going to end up in a heap on the floor, wood against skin, blood in a pool around my head like a halo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t get angry, not visibly anyway, I don’t get even. I don't clench my fist and I don't cry. At least, not where my tears can be made into a bullet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger feels dirty against my skin, maybe because it feels unwilling, because it feels wrong. It's 3am, and anger is the space between my hands and my neck. I call that space desire. It feels dirty, it feels so fucking dirty as I breathe that against the clasp of my hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Desire, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it says back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>desire, in the grit of your teeth</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother won't look at me when I stand in front of her. Maybe she's scared, maybe she realises she's raised me slightly feral, maybe she wants to fool herself into thinking that it isn't me that she's doing this to, that I am a stranger who has offended her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I curse love in the same breath that says I hate myself. If hate is the absence of love, anger is the absence of peace, because all anger has taught me is that fists feel better with glass in them, and fingers paint purple when you put them against hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's taught me that biting your lip bloody doesn't make you any less of a failure, and solitude is the only place in which you can make lovers of your emotions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take anger first, or rather anger takes me. On my bed, between my legs. It hits the space beside me and say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>im teaching you how to do it correctly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't notice my tears and I don't want it to, doesn't notice when I start to shake, and I don't want it to. Anger is quick, anger is slutty, anger is wrapped in black silk with a tongue red like wine and hands that grip the headboard a little too hard. Anger is notches in my bedpost, dents in the wall, and walking unsteadily for days on end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger is my one night stand, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>diall for quick relief. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Anger doesn't ask for a reason and I don't provide one, that's how this works. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rage. Now rage is my lover. I take them first, over my kitchen counter, in the pews of my church, over and over and over again until I'm half blind with desire, until I'm worn and spent. Then I take them again, just to be sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's when i'm limp, do I then become their vessel. I'm not saying rage corners me in the middle of the night, when only my phone screen provides illumination, but I'm saying rage knows when I'm not going to scream and it takes me from behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a tight fit, in my bed, but they make it work, curl around me and tell me to stay pretty, stay silent, and to spread for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rage takes me slow, and deep, until I'm certain this is good for me, until I'm crying silent tears, until God knows my name. Rage makes me pray for forgiveness, because I feel like a bad girl with bad posture and a chip on her shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[Girl that's not really a girl, and oh rage calls me every name that's ever going to cross my mind.]</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. I love you, you leave me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to all the people who got close, im sorry I didn’t return your feelings.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You sit in my bathtub and it's 3am and you bleed. It mixes with the water and I laugh at you and ask "is this normal?" you laugh as well. We're both drunk. I love you more than words allow me to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay? Okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sleep with you because I enjoy your presence and I love your body against mine. I tell you I love you and you leave me in the morning. I promise I won't tell you those words again. You come back to me. I tell you I love you. The cycle repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look. I hold you against me and it feels like the third book of Revelations. The one that talks about your tongue in my mouth and my hand in yours and the empty bottle of wine on our mantlepiece. The silence demands us this time, that is as clear as every scorching kiss and burning hand I [you] press against you [me]. I love you. You leave me. The pages feel cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's so much to find in an art gallery. Pictures of you. Memories of you. You on paper. You in clothes. You, candid. You, naked and wrapped in silk sheets. You, lovely. You, angry. You, sad, happy, confused. Are you seeing it now? You are art. I want to touch you, fuck the signs, fuck the security, fuck god watching me through the security cameras. Take me back to when I took this, blurry-eyed, red in the face, soft. I hope you credited me. Everything in this damn Hall is mine [especially you]. I love you. You leave me. They drag me out of the door kicking and screaming kicking and screaming kicking and screaming and screaming and screaming-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors are locked next time I try to open them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit in my bathtub and wipe the blood from your face. It's a love scene; it's history repeated. It's 3am and I'm relearning how to laugh with you. I ask "Is this normal" and you start laughing harder, harder, harder, it feels like I'm on a carousel, I feel sick. This feels different. [this doesn't feel like how I imagined love to feel?] we're both drunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I love you. I tell you I love you. And you stumble out of the bathtub like I've hurt you, like the red on your face is from my fist, like I've dug pieces of shattered porcelain into your fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I love you. You leave me. History doesn't repeat itself perfectly</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. ghost-town part one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>to the nonbelievers, lets do this again.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>there's a million things in this city and none of them are you. but i don't know how to tell you i love you without mentioning this ghost-town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>let me start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>do you remember the alleyway where you held me close? i trembled when you wrapped a hand around the nape of my neck and pulled at the soft hairs there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>i think it was there that i realised i wanted you forever. there, with your lips on my own and holiness surrounding us like we were bastard angels, that i realised i could never let you go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>remember when you convinced me god loved me? i don't think you want to talk about it so i never mentioned the way your knees hurt after kneeling in this pews, taking me like communion. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>the eroticism of worship as told by you and i. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>here's what i think:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>we were too young to be doing those things in a church, and the guilt will stay with me forever, but i won't forget the way you called out my name or the way we called it the </span>
  <em>
    <span>coming of christ </span>
  </em>
  <span>or the way i realised i would miss this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>miss feeling guilty over things like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>i admit, you've bastardized me, but angel, my fallen angel, what i wouldn't give to do it again and again and again. have you ruin me again and again and again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. quarantine, 2020</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>to all the people who are not sick.</p><p>follow my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/ctrldabi?s=21">@ctrldabi</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>the guy down the hall is sick, and so is his girlfriend, and so is his girlfriends mother, and so is the man who sold you tea</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>on a saturday morning, and complained that his son never visited</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you hope his son visits him after this, because he’s suffering, and the shop's </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>closed and you can’t get tea on a Saturday morning anymore and—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>what day is it today? you don’t know, you brew your kettle anyway, and put the teabag in and pray your professor is okay, because education is the only thing you look forward to on a wednesday</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>except </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>is it really wednesday? it doesn’t feel like it, you don’t even know what month it is, you’ve learnt to stomach your complaints so much your hips are aching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>but at least you're not sick. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>you work from home, late into the night and early into the morning, and you only pause to eat – a packet of carrot crisps that are at least a week old. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>your girlfriend talks to you in the background, she’s small in the corner of your computer. you want to kiss her through the screen, to remember that softness exists </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>in spaces it shouldn’t be allowed to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>she’s wrapped on a duvet and she’s sleepy,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>not sick,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you know this because she tells you everything. she tells you it’s been sixty-five days since she last held your hand, sixty-five days since she lays kissed you, sixty-five days since you laid her down on your bed and took, took, took—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>your duvet's a mess, you don’t let her see, she’s already worried about you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you’re lonely, unbearably so, and the words swim on your screen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>at least you’re not sick, just sad.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>your pride flag can't go in the wash, so you hand soak it and hope</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>june doesn't come too early. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you don't have the bruises from two years ago, where the girl with the pink hair gripped </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>your wrists and held you down and told you</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"you look pretty under the neon</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>lets show them what loving is."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>the girl wasn't your girlfriend but you can't help but miss her </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you wonder if she's doing okay</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>if she's dead </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>or if she's sick</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>and you wash your flag to that thought, let the jazz smooth your burning edges and sear</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>hope into your chest </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>june wont come slowly, but at least you're not sick. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. it’s no good, the boy’s just no good.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>for best friends.</p><p>[this is a little different, it’s not a poem and as far as i can tell it’s pretty incomplete. i like it a lot, though, so i decided to post it anyways, i hope you enjoy it.]</p><p>trigger warnings: homophobia, homophobic violence, mentions of drugs and slight nsfw content mentioned.</p><p>follow my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/vamptenko?s=21">@vamptenko</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <em>
    <span>2014, March.</span>
  </em>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason Arroyo was in love, and like all boys in love he wanted to be better, which meant he had to give up a few things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Standing on the doorstep of Harley’s house shouldn't have been so hard, because Harley was his friend and they were fourteen, and at fourteen he would understand what he was going through. Afterall, he had been there through his fleeting crush on Anna Longers with her pretty red hair and freckles and toothy smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley had called him an idiot though, because Anna had a crush on Ethan Thomas from down the road, and didn't give Jason more than the stink eye when he asked to take her to the winter faire back in december. He’d even brought snowdrops, way too expensive a bouquet for a guy that had fifty dollars and a pack of gummy worms to his name could afford.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t regretted it though, until she had pushed him into the mud and told him she didn’t want to hang out with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>queer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which, kind of hurt, but this was a small town and Anna’s parents were firmly in the blue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Danny was better – and cuter – with butter blond curls and eyes like the creek that all the cool kids took a dive into; wild and cold and chillingly blue, murky with the green of weeds, or in Danny’s case, his mother's eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was shorter than Jason, and Harley, but no less stronger than them. They were all fourteen and giggling and smelling of chlorine when Jason realised he had a crush on him, hands fiddling with the straps of his goggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason had turned away, and let his stomach sink to his feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason huffed, and knocked on the door with a little more vigour, a blush spreading over his cheeks. Harley was probably being a dick and making him wait, but Jason had hinted at coming to his house all day, he'd even used the signal in the middle of class, but Harley had ignored him. Oh well, he was infamous for being a pissy bitch at the worst of times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been pissy when Jason had a crush on Anna, weirdly so. For a second, Jason had thought he had a crush on him, which yes, he would be fine with because Harley was his bro and he could let him down easier, but it would still be weird. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They'd come tumbling out of the womb, Harley first and then Jason, one week after the other. They'd been put in cribs right next to each other in the blue baby boy room, their parents had been a part of the same, weird, small town knitting circle where they'd made their baby boys little blue and yellow caps to perch on top of fat heads with a little smattering of thin hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley still had thin hair, he needed hats more than Jason did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They'd been best friends for forever, is what Jason meant. They'd shared a bath, a pool and even a bed. Jason had been the officiator at Harley's kindergarten weddings and vice versa, threading wildflowers into each other's hair during the breaks between class.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They'd been each other's first kiss at  eleven, giggling and disgusted at what they had done. They promised it wouldn't change anything and it didn't, what was a kiss between friends anyway? It didn't mean anything, their sisters did it all the time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So what if they were boys, so what if they liked other boys, so what if they were too emotional?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley cried. A lot. He made hot angry tears, tears that seemed to roll and roll and roll. He was an ugly crier, a pretty crier, a drunk crier. He cried for any reason, as long as the reason was worthy of his tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Jason didn't mention that half the time he wiped his tears away hastily, that he made sure no one saw his tears.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason was used to making sure when Harley cried he didn't drown himself in his tears, propped his head onto his shoulder, asked him if he was fine, forced water down his throat as he coughed and spluttered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jay was the mother, Harley was the child even when they were kids barely out of the cradle. Jason would sit there, eyebrows furrowed, clumsy chubby hands forcing blocks into Harley's red ones, not understanding why his friend was crying but knowing it was his job to stop it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though Harley was older, [</span>
  <em>
    <span>"only by a week Harls, it doesn't count."</span>
  </em>
  <span>] Jason was responsible for him, Jason was the one that had to look out for him, Jason was the caretaker and Harley was the one that looked for him to know what to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That's how it worked, that's how they worked, it was normal, it set them at ease. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were only fourteen, though, so Jason allowed them room to grow. Like the flowers they found crammed into the space between pavements; wild and free and young.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door swung open, and there was Harley, all tousled hair and bad posture, with coal black eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times. His cheek was covered in a smattering of brown - freckles, new and born from the sun - that gave him the boy next door look that all the old ladies down at the grocery store adored. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a juxtaposition to his personality, his sweet looks. As kind and well-meaning as Harley looked, he had a heart that was wicked and hands that were looking for fun. He was cruel without true meaning, because he hardly knew better, and because understanding feelings wasn't his forté. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feelings, those were for Jason to understand and for Harley to experience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason gripped his backpack harder, knuckles going white with effort. He gritted his teeth, eyes downcast. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If this was bravery then Jason wanted no part in it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'm in love with Danny, from swimming, with the blond hair and the blue eyes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley blinked, then blinked again, running a hand over his face before swinging the door open further. His lip curled into a smirk. Not cruel, but like he had just been waiting for Jason to make the admission, and now that Jason had finally summoned the courage to tell his shameful secret to the world, Harley was going to have the time of his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he started, stepping past Jason, knowing the other teen knew how to lock the door properly. “Why don't you come in and tell me </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h1>
  <em>
    <span>2016, October.</span>
  </em>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason Arroyo was in love, and he was learning how to deal with heartbreak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Having your secret boyfriend dump you for a chance at a cheerleader who was very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very, </span>
  </em>
  <span>feminine wasn't the hit to his confidence that Jason had been hoping for but it was the  one he had got. Which… well it sucked, plain and simple.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fred had been an okay guy, he'd picked Jason up so they could go to the movies, all letterman jacket and charming smile, he'd respected  that Jason didn't want to do more than kiss, hell they'd even gone to the beach one time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley had given him the pass, which was what mattered really, even if Jason had to practically force his hand. Sure, he hadn't been all too tolerant of him but he put in work to hide his sneers and had always fixed his face into something somewhat flat, which was the best that Jason could reasonably ask from him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fred had told him that he was gay and that no one was hot enough to capture his attention other than Jason,  which was a lie – obviously – considering how the day after they had broken up (because Fred thought he deserved </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>) the guy had been walking around with Sandra Davis, who he had reportedly hooked up with the night before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Safe to say, it was a debacle, and Jason had spent the rest of the week reading things too dark for his own good and playing Minecraft.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley hadn't commented past the usual best friend spiel of </span>
  <em>
    <span>"well, i told you you would get your heart broken but I've got ice cream in my freezer waiting for you" </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Jason was grateful for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Justina wasn't one to check up on him, even at the lowest of his lows, and his mother hadn't done more than make him a sandwich at seeing his dejected look. It was expected, though, things were tense with Justina and his parents didn't know that Fred Mavis had been pawing at his jeans on Saturday night behind the Movie Theatre and no way in hell were they ever going to know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was a truth reserved for Fred, Jason, the employee who looked high out of their mind and Harley, who had pried the details from him using manipulation and freshly baked snickerdoodles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Smart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, though, it was Halloween break, and previously Fred and he were going to watch a movie and carve a few pumpkins and make out, but Fred and he had been over for more than a week. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe they'd been over for much longer, and Jason just hadn't seen the signs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley was going to a party, his parents were out, Justina had gone back to the city and Jason was alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until, at least, Harley had damn near broken his door down, jacket slung over his shoulder and makeup just a little smeared. He looked good in red lipstick, Jason noted, better than he did anyways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley had grown into a beanstalk, a little too tall and way too skinny for a teenage boy. He had acne, which was made worse by his consistent use of makeup, and his nose still looked just a little crooked, but it was endearing </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still had that smattering of brown, small-town sun, freckles that now spanned across the width of his stark, birdlike, shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hair was choppy, probably cut with a pair of kitchen shears, and bleached an ugly shade of blond which meant that Harley was going to dye it soon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason could have gotten that from the hair dye he was holding, if he had paid more attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His costume looked like it had been fashioned with Kitchen scissors as well, scarily ripped jeans that were meant to cling to his legs, but instead hung just on the side of too awkwardly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley wasn't picture perfect punk, nor was he standardly pretty, but people didn't normally focus on the fact that he was too pale or too cold, not when his personality made up for that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You told me you were too broke for hair dye," Jason said in lieu of a greeting, wrapping the blanket around him tighter to combat the cold chill Harley was letting in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I am," He responded, matter-of-factly. "I stole it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You stole it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I did."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason sighed, heavy, leaning on the door frame. Typical. "What do you want, Harls? I'm busy."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Busy wallowing in your own pity and filth, that's what." Harley stepped past him, letting Jason lock the doors. He'd been over enough to know where to put his shoes, and his jacket, so Jason made to move to the living room and back to his sweat and tissues. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe Harley was right, maybe he was wallowing in filth. But it was deserved. At least he wasn't getting drunk. He was sixteen, and unlike Harley, he still feared his mother and what she would do to him if she found him drinking her wine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Get up, Jason." Harley said, pulling on his arm. "To the bathroom, I can't get the back of my head by myself."</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's dye stank, and it stained, so Jason found himself pushing a spare bin bag into his sink, so that his parents wouldn't come home and think he'd leaked blue blood all over the place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley was bent over the sink, allowing Jason to push the deep blue into his roots, only occasionally changing the song he was playing from his phone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My chemical romance – what an emo. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason pulled a bag over his head, tying it back like he'd seen Harley do so many times, checking the knot once, then again, before peeling off his gloves and putting them into the bag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're going to look like a troll," he said, wiping his nose with a tissue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well…" Harley trailed off, shrugging, voice falsely calm. "I'd rather look like a troll than a dumbass blond jock who thinks it's his god given right to play you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason rolled his eyes, already ready to tune him out. "Harls, Don't–" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No, Jay, I shut my mouth enough when you were dating, and now you're not dating. He treated you like trash, </span>
  <em>
    <span>admit</span>
  </em>
  <span> it."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason sat on the toilet seat in silence, hands white knuckled into the ceramic toilet seat. He was telling the truth, he had to hand it to him, but the truth hurt, badly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't want to think about how Fred had never put any emojis next to his name, or how he'd staunchly called him 'Jason' or even 'Arroyo' – not Jay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't want to think about how he hadn't kissed him when he went to the beach, or avoided his eyes at school. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't want to think about how he'd flinched away when Jason held his hand, or how he'd been pissed at the fact that Jay didn't want to have sex with him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thinking about that would be an admission of failure, a confession that he had made a mistake; all blond, movie star jocks did was hurt your feelings and Jay was realising that the hard way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley had warned him, and he'd chosen not to listen, that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> sin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m being harsh, I know, but you can't keep letting yourself get run over by men who see you as a quick lay, or a prude to get a crack out of, or a charity case, because you’re gay in a small town and they think they’re doin’ you a favour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley leaned his head against the wall, wincing for a second before lifting his head back up. There was a blazing fury in his eyes, like he didn't expect Jason to take his words lying down. They'd been around each other long enough to know this was an issue with the possibility to drag out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know that's not how I saw it,” Jason half muttered, like he was ashamed. “He was just a nice guy…”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Fuck nice guys, I hate nice guys.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay well, you can't control who I date or what I'm into, you're not my dad, you're not my sister.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Y’right, i'm your best friend, which means i'm gonna look out for you no matter what.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Im not saying don’t date people, I'm not saying don't go and make bad decisions, because we're both going to make bad decisions and fuck up, and we might laugh about it afterwards but we also may not. I'm saying, stop livin' in the delusion that is making the same bad decision over and over again and thinking there are no consequences. I'm saying stop being surprised when shit straight guys treat you like shit.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley forced out  a laugh, drawing his knees up to his chest, scratching at an angry red spot on his neck. If he wasn't careful, it would bleed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn't…” Jason paused, letting his hair fall over his face, before pushing it back. “I'm sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don't be, it's not your fault.” The reassurance was moot, because it certainly was Jason's fault, but for a second they could pretend it wasn't.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lets just eat stolen candy and talk about hot people we wish was gay,” Harley continued, rising tp his feet shackily. “Fred can wait for another day, preferably when I don’t have blue dye on my shirt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason nodded best he could, letting Harley's words process through his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, hands knuckle deep in cold blue water, ignoring the way Harley complained about him being too rough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least when all the other guys treat me like shit, he'll take care of me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h1>
  <em>
    <span>2018, August</span>
  </em>
</h1><p>
  <span>Jason Arroyo was in love with August, which made sense.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>August was sticky-sweet heat, thrumming like a heartbeat. August was alive in ways other months were not, and it tasted of frosting or fruit syrup, or ice cream running down your hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason had been born in August, so it belonged to him. Every cornflower blue sky that bled into sanguine was his for the admiring, and for the taking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d lost his virginity in August, to Selena Witton, with the short skirt and the red lips and the quarterback boyfriend. She’d been nice to him, and in turn he’d let her crawl into his lap and take what she wanted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Selena’s boyfriend was a dick, she had explained, and they were on a break, and Jason was cute and willing. He had held her closer, only for a second, before pulling his shirt back on, her crumpled number in his hands and the scent of artificial strawberries on his skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason was still seen as the gay boy, but at least he was the gay boy that had lost their virginity to the prettiest girl in Mount Vakempber High. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>August was sharp as well, like a needle, so it made sense to get tattooed. For August, that was how Harley had convinced him, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ‘H’ on his ankle burned a hole through his jeans, worse than the vodka pooling in his stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tattoo hadn't been the only change he'd undergone. Ever since the discovery of Jason Todd – red hood and the second robin, resident comic book hottie – Harley had clamoured to bleach his hair near white. He’d succeeded, after a month, with Jason allowing him to layer on bleach until a strip of his hair was as close to white as he could get. It had burned, but they'd been satisfied with the end product.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The motel had strict rules about alcohol, but Jason craved a buzz similar to that of the aircon in the background and Harley had a bottle of vodka he had stolen from his sister last time he went to visit her. It was fruity and cheap, which was to say it was enough for two teen boys trying to get out of town. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It took ten days to drive from the small town of Mount Vakempber, just off of Verrie, to the big city that was New Richan, and Jason had enough gas to cover that and then some. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>New Richan was everything a city was meant to be, and Harley had assured him that life there would be easy, so they'd crossed off all the other towns on their lists and made for there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fred was more of a dick than summer twenty-sixteen had made him out to be, apparent by the still scabbed, red gash on Harley's lips and the blood stained shirt in the back of Jason's car. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fred hit like a bitch”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley had insisted with a sneer, tumbling into Jason's bed with a rag pressed to his lip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“He knows I have shit on him and he still came after me, because he wants the town to know that he rocked the shit out of Harley Hsiao’s queer, chinese ass.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fred had claimed it was a joke, because Fred was just that much of a closeted asshole that he wanted to take out his struggles on the people around him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span>, trying to beat someone to death was a joke, </span>
  <em>
    <span>apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span> trying to throw someone into a river was a joke, </span>
  <em>
    <span>apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span> attempting to tie someone to the back of your car and drag them through the town like a poorly made </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘just got hitched</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ decoration was a joke–</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason hadn't laughed then, with his graduation cap clutched in his hands, nose bleeding all over his crisps white shirt, because Fred hadn’t just come for Harley, he’d sent his goons after Jason as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn't laughed when he packed his shit up either, all clumsy hands and bruised ribs, his Mama at his ankle begging him to stay, telling him that she would call the police. He knew the police didn’t do shit, not when a gay kid was involved, or when a Latino kid was involved, or when a Asian kid was involved, or when a hate crime was involved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn't laughed when he’d kick-started the ignition to his black, Ford, nineteen-seventies pick up truck that he'd brought off of his dad's dime. His dad hadn’t laughed either, because he loved that car, almost as much as he loved Jason, and here was his son taking them both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn't laughed until he'd crashed into the motel bed and realised, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally realised, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he was becoming his sister.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Justina had never been one for telling the truth, right from when she’d come out the womb. She’d run to the city, like he had (like he was planning to), with not even college education under her belt. She was taking online classes, last Jason had heard, trying to balance her kid and her job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her boyfriend was nice, nicer than anyone she had ever picked up in their little town. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason had only met him once, when she’d collected him from the train station and taken him to her little apartment, he was around the same height as Jason – so shorter than her – with tattoos laced up his arms neatly, like a corset. He was a bouncer and didn't care that she had a kid by another man. He could care for Tedéo the way his father should have, and he was  good to Justina, so  that was a pass in Jason’s book.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being out from under their parents' roof had humbled her, in a way Jason had struggled to reconcile with. Growing up, Justina had been cruel and rebellious with a mean streak a mile wide. Any interactions with her had left Jason angry, or on the verge of tears, or both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were too emotional for each other, that was for certain, time apart had given them time to strengthen their relationship. Sure, jason didn't call her every week or send her gifts all the time, but the steady stream of pictures he received from her was good enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least, he had a nephew who recognised him as their uncle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason dug his heels into the bed, feeling the uncomfortable springs through his socks. Harley lay next to him, bloodshot eyes closed, short eyelashes just barely brushing his cheeks. Jason’s thumb hovered over his face, slick with vodka, before finally brushing over the cracked skin of his lip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley hissed and Jason ignored it. “If I kissed you now, what would you do?” He said instead, because he was drunk, and he didn't know how to shut his mouth when he was drunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't love Harley in that way, he never would, that was for certain. This wasn't one of those moments where the alcohol started talking and revealed all his secret fantasies. This wasn’t the books where two best friends ran away and realised they were in love and kissed each other, square on the lips, before going to have a big happy family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t that, this was just Jason wanting to know if those boys, eleven covered in popsicle juice, were still there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley peeled one eye open, shifting slightly to get a better look at jason. “I’d say ew, because that's ew, we’re not in a relationship; I don't like you like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Harls, what if I wanted to prove I had soft lips?” Jason raised a thick eyebrow, fluffing the pillow around his head. “And you wouldn't lie to me about that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes but I'm also not young and gullible enough to pretend that this isn't because you're a touchy feely drunk and you like to kiss the people you love and hug all your friends, that kinda shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t love you.” Jason giggled, lips smoothing into a childish smile. “Do you love me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Say that to the tattoo on your ankle.” Harley sat up, then hesitated, before pressing a sloppy kiss to Jason's jaw, then another to his forehead. Harley's breath smelt like vodka and greasy tacos, and his skin stank of the acne cream he used, mixed with the hand moisturiser he’d found on Jason's dashboard - all vanilla and chamomile and chemicals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know i’ll always love you, kinda.” he flopped back into the pillows, patting jason’s chest, thumbing along the faded letters of his sweatshirt. “I love you when you don't eat my tacos, and when you let me have the last bit of vodka, and when you drive for fifteen minutes longer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You kinda love me always, you dick, stop playing it off like you don't care about me-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you dont shut your mouth, you'll fuck this up for both of us,” Harley muttered, closing his eyes again. “Ruining the moment and shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, whatever, that wasn't your attitude when I was putting a ‘J’ on your ankle.” Harley reached out, cold bony feet pressing into Jason's thigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They didn't know what tomorrow would bring, or even what it would take to get to tomorrow. Someone could break into their room and put a gun to their head, or kidnap them and stuff them into the back of a trunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There could be hell to pay for running away, and god would be hot on their heels, but they knew that this motel was warm for the moment and that they always had each other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Always. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. three quarters vodka, one quarter orange juice.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>for lowell, thank you for everything.</p><p>[this is really trash, im so sorry, i just wanted to get something out, its been a while. I’ve been really uninspired, and i will probably come back to this later, and write something else using this <a href="https://twitter.com/loverswithbasil/status/1297789236716994560?s=21">prompt</a></p><p>I also changed my twitter so here! follow my twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/vamptenko?s=21">@vamptenko</a></p><p>trigger warnings: drug use</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>you call me at seven in the morning, i’m awake, waiting for you to speak the words into my ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“mimosas.” you say, voice rasping. like this, in my sheets, i can tell you’ve had a rough night. i can imagine the bruises on your neck already, you’re probably shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to hold you close, but all I have is the blue light of my phone and adoration that follows you everywhere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“you bring the orange juice,” i say. i don’t ask if you’re okay, you’re not. i know you’re not.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>i live in the apartment above the laundry room because i like being able to climb down from my window into your – </span>
  <em>
    <span>the cities </span>
  </em>
  <span>– embrace. you don’t like front doors so i unlock my window and let you go in through the rickety fire escape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you’re not drunk, but I’m scared that you’ll fall, anyways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>your cheeks are warm, glowing in my dim mood lights, and i say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I adore you” </span>
  </em>
  <span>because i do, and this is what i can afford to tell you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>look, sweet lover, i don’t have any eggs in my house right now, but you seem hungry, so come here, let me feed you nostalgia, okay? on my walls i have five years of hope documented in polaroids, and in each one, my hand gets closer to your waist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>in the picture we are bright blue and young and aching, like fire, like jewels lost to the hands of noblemen. best friend, thorn in my palm, do you remember that navy slip of a dress? the one made of silk, the one that made me feel more manly than i ever had before, in a pair of black heels and a fur coat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you are mimosas, more vodka than orange, and it reminds me of being young and crushing pills against our palm, mixing them with sugar and kissing it off of each other’s lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>we’re fine like this, okay, i don’t want to take us back to our demon days, but it’s inevitable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>you crawl into my bed and hold me down down down, spit tequila into my mouth and giggle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>i can feel the vibrations of the washing machine below us, it’s like the hum of need under my skin. buzzing so hard your fingers bounce against my skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>okay baby, show me what vodka does to your spirit.</span>
</p>
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